1.

When she pops her lacquered head in and flashes that fake-sincere smile, Yuri Kimoto-Graham is wearing Prada slingbacks and a permanent manicure accessorizing a rock the size of a molar. Her black hair is slicked back, no flyaways, into a sleek ponytail. Her sleek ponytail is curling-ironed into a single helix. The single helix of her ponytail boings when she walks. Yuri Kimoto-Graham is Hawaiian by heritage, moneyed by circumstance. We are not friends.
       I call Peter. I do not call Peter.
              I do not call Peter. Peter is gone.

Yuri Kimoto-Graham is: Crescent smile, skin flickering like a hologram. Jules! Yuri Kimoto-Graham sings. I got you a muffin! Whole wheat! Flapping the brown bag in her hand. Flapping it insistently. Yuri Kimoto Graham is everything to everyone. The way I should be. Peter would stop calling me so negative, so negative all the time. Jesus, Jules. Why do you have to be so negative.
       I'm not.
              I'm not.

Yuri Kimoto-Graham wears: Grey cashmere sweater tee. Matching cashmere cardigan with imitation pearl buttons that match her real pearl choker. Black knee-length skirt from Benetton. Has: Plumpish, glowing skin. Naturally pink-pink lips turned purple with MAX Factor lipstick. Nose that flares gently up and out. Deep black eyes. Wide-set. Excessively lashed. Yuri Kimoto-Graham says: Are you coming? To the conference? Raises the bag again. Flaps it more urgently. Jules?
       No one calls me Jules except Peter.
              Peter is gone.

I minimize my personal email folder and maximize one of my Excel spreadsheets. I slip my consignment-bought Nine West pumps over the bandaids on my heels, push back my wheeled chair, get up. I grab my yellow notepad, my good pen. I step towards Yuri with a sigh.
       No one knows who I am.
              I am nothing. To no one.

Joseph Gussman shuffles toward us, also on his way to the conference room. Yuri Kimoto-Graham sings: J-dawg! Beams her bright-white, purple-lipsticked smile. Joseph Gussman: Middle-aged paunch whose yarmulke is always off-center. Never uses soap when cleaning shared dishware. Joseph Gussman slows, blushing. I loved your op-ed piece in the Post, Yuri chirps. Your point about systemic anti-Semitism was particularly astute. How are you today?
       Joseph grins, gives a little bow.
              Yuri turns back to me.

Yuri Kimoto-Graham has been here just two weeks, and I know her methods like that. She doesn't care about Jews or Joseph Gussman. She just wants him to like her and do things for her, like make her a senior staffer. From there she expects to go straight to Congress. No one would be surprised. She's crafty, that Yuri. She knows what people want.
       Nicknames and muffins.
              I don't fall for that shit.

Yuri Kimoto-Graham and Joseph Gussman walk down the hall to the conference room. I follow. We sit around the table, I next to Yuri, Joseph across from us. We promptly and synchronously cross our legs. In comes Kelly Krueger, wearing pinstriped cream trouser pants and a tailored black buttondown. I like Kelly Krueger. We worked at the same college newspaper and have numerous shared experiences to fall back on when stuck together in elevators. I smile at Kelly Krueger. She sits next to Yuri Kimoto-Graham. Kelly Krueger leans in towards Yuri Kimoto-Graham conspiratorially and whispers, causing Yuri Kimoto-Graham to cover her mouth with her hand and giggle with great mirth.
       Tee hee. Tee hee hee.
              I glare at my notepad, tap my foot against a table leg to pass the time.

The rest of them file in, followed by the press secretary, who sits, then stands, then skitters his fingernails across the table to announce the start of the conference. Unusually long nails for a man. Unusually bushy eyebrows. While he asks and answers questions, I scratch notes onto my yellow notepad. I watch Yuri Kimoto-Graham nod emphatically at each point he makes. I draw Peter. I draw dead dogs. Yuri Kimoto-Graham raises her hand and asks a particularly astute question about the senator's constituency. I try to think of a particularly astute question to top hers.
       I draw more Peters. More dead dogs.
              The conference draws to a close.

Yuri Kimoto-Graham follows me back to my cubicle. Jules, she sings.
       Peter is gone.
Life stinks sometimes, like when your truest love for ever and ever leaves you, just like that, even though he's the one who brought up the true love crap in the first place, and you were just like whatever before that, and then you were smitten, and now you are crushed, and your whole life is like over?
       Sometimes, life can really stink.
Lunch later? I'm dying to try the new sushi bar on H. Yuri stares at me quizzically. Blink, blink. Her skin flickers violently.
       I nod to get her out.
              I smile.

I take off my consignment-bought grey blazer and return to my personal email. Nothing from Peter, nothing from anyone. What have I done, I wonder, to deserve the attentions of Yuri Kimoto-Graham? Maybe, after seeing me with Peter on Friday, she's decided I have "connections." I check my work email. She would be wrong. A number of small crises involving broken links on the site. I fix them. I call my editor. She is on the other line.
       I call Peter. I do not call Peter.
              I do not call Peter.

Yuri Kimoto-Graham marches into my cubicle at 1:01 p.m. Ready? she asks pointedly, a bright smile hiding her annoyance at finding me shoeless and unjacketed. We're meeting the girls. What happened to your—?
       I hurry my arm into my blazer.
              Yuri's eyes flicker back to mine.

I order vegetarian California rolls. My stomach too unsteady for fish. Yuri orders edamame and sashimi. The girls are Tricia and Jasmine, on K Street. Tricia is: navy J. Crew skirt suit with pearls. Brown chin-length hair. Total hardbody. Jasmine is: Less hot. Face fat that needs losing to bring out what could be exquisite cheekbones. This is Julia, Yuri Kimoto-Graham says with a proud little smirk and a flourish of the wrist. She's my new project. I give them a self-conscious smile. I am not your new project. Yuri giggles and paws my arm, making sure to flash her engagement ring.
       Jasmine grins in my direction. So who are you dating?
              I'm between relationships, I trail, my skin suddenly cold.
       You're not seeing anyone? Trish smirks.
              No.
       You're not seeing anyone?
My smile: bulletproof. I boomerang the question back to them.

Jules, I saw you at the Black Tie, Yuri says. Her tone has changed. Who were you with? I had gone home early because Dem staffers are as boring as Republicans. It was a beautiful dress, carefully selected to help me fit in. The California rolls are delicious, I say.
       He left the next day.
When I get back to my desk after lunch, I call Peter. I do not call Peter.
              I call Peter.
He doesn't pick up the phone. Maybe he's in a conference. Maybe I'll torture his dog when I get home. I call my editor. She is working remotely. Darn. More links to fix. The dog is already gone. I log onto the server. People described Charles Manson as a changeling. I fix the links. No one knew who he was.

2.

I stop in the park to sketch, away from the girls, away from the phone that Peter won't ring. He needs space, is all. He needs me to be positive. I sit on a bench and hover over my sketchbook. I wonder if I were a great artist, would Peter come back. I bet you he would.
       If I were less negative.
              A more positive person.

A scruffy-faced man in cutoffs and Chuck Taylors walks by, takes a peek at my sketchbook. He's going to start a conversation. I tuck in tight over my page. That's incredible! he says. Really. He comes closer. I prickle. Can I see more? I hesitate, then nod. He flips through, feigns enthusiasm for my diluted Day of the Dead motifs.
       I'm not Mexican.
              Surely he can tell.

I sketch, too. Wanna see? He hands me a small square notebook, pretends nervousness and humility. His sketches are better than mine. Amusing, well-crafted portraits of unusually shaped women. High in contrast. Real and surreal at the same time. Where do you get your material? He smiles, his face open and relaxed. I draw people I see here, mostly. I kind of haunt this place.
       These are nice. I make my voice as blank and expressionless as possible. I hand the notebook back to him.
       His smile falters. He leaves.
              When I get home, I decide to call Peter again.
No answer. I leave him a generic voicemail.
                            I can't sleep.
                                   I think I am dead.

3.

At work the next day, Yuri treats me like her favorite person, but I know that's just shit. Jules this, Jules that. Jules, I brought you a coffee! Jules, I had such a fabulous time with you and the girls at lunch yesterday. Shall we do happy hour? Well, Yuri, that depends. Is there an unhappy hour?
       Heh.
I check my email. I check my voicemail. I check my email again. I suck in my breath. Peter has written back.
       Dead Julia, I just need some space, okay?
              Stupid typos.

Yuri pops her head in. Jules, conference time! I brought you a doughnut! Whole wheat! She flaps the brown bag in her hand. Peter would like Yuri a lot, I bet. She is exactly his type. Peter is a very positive person. He needs a very positive person to be with.
       Peter has not written back.
              The conference draws to a close.

4.

Yuri Kimoto-Graham hums when she pees. When she is done, skirt down, toilet flushed, she aches luxurious like a cat stretching, her skin rippling loose over her muscles. Sound of static electricity. She shakes and shakes and ripples and bristles and when she is done she is new. Everything to everyone. Chameleon.
       Flush.
              I bet you Peter would like Yuri a lot.

Yuri Kimoto-Graham hums when she pees. Yuri Kimoto-Graham does not pull preemptive toilet paper. She waits till she is done, then pulls the toilet paper and tears confidently. Yuri Kimoto-Graham blows her nose on the toilet paper before using it to wipe. Yuri Kimoto-Graham is for saving the environment one small step at a time. Yuri Kimoto-Graham will make an excellent politician.
       I used to practice small talk in the elevator to myself.
              Sometimes, people should die.

Yuri Kimoto-Graham is the best of moods. Charming, devilishly provocative jokes to the men while chanting hos before bros to the ladies. Yuri Kimoto-Graham knows that people are boring and say the same stupid shit over and over and over again. Yuri Kimoto-Graham is still like Haaahaha whenever someone tells a joke she's heard five times. This shows them that she Really, Really Cares.
       Yuri Kimoto-Graham is nice teeth, permanent smile, everything to everyone.
              Yuri Kimoto-Graham will make an excellent politician.
                     We are not friends.

Everyone knows who Yuri Kimoto-Graham is. Yuri Kimoto-Graham is skin. Glowing, radiant, smooth skin all over her body, pulsing in heat with whomever she's with so that she knows what they want and can be it. Yuri Kimoto-Graham can shiver her skin loose then tight on her body. She can flicker it, flicker her skin into another, new skin because she is a chameleon. That is what she is.
       That is her secret. That is how she works.
              I have discovered the secret to Yuri Kimoto-Graham's power.
                     I have discovered how to steal Yuri Kimoto-Graham's power.
                            I will go to the hospital and steal a scalpel, and then
                                   I will steal Yuri Kimoto-Graham's power.

No I won't. I will purchase a scalpel online. I like to shop from my desk to pass the time. Shopping online is the nicest thing. I will search online for a scalpel and then I will click Buy, and then select Overnight Delivery.
       No I won't. I will unhide myself from behind Yuri Kimoto-Graham's potted plant.
       Then I will call Peter. I will not call Peter. I will call Peter. I will not call Peter.
              I have called Peter.
                     I have not called Peter.

I tiptoe down the hall to my cubicle, hiding behind the coat rack when the boss walks by. When I get to my cubicle, I check my messages. My editor has called multiple times. Maybe I have called in sick. I have called in sick. Having called in sick, I decide to go to the park and then go home and then think about buying or stealing a scalpel. Maybe I will call a friend. I have no friends. All of them are robotic faketoids who don't know who I am.
       I miss Peter so much.
              Why did he ever leave me.
No one knows who I am. I am a stupid rotten dumdum.
       I miss Peter so much.
              Why did he ever love me.
Nobody loves me. No one has ever loved me. I thought Peter loved me but he LIED I will go now to purchase a scalpel

I go to my cubicle. I check my email. Nothing from Peter, nothing from anyone. When I get home from work, I call Peter. He does not pick up the phone. I leave a generic voicemail.
       I can't sleep.
              I am dead.

5.

At the Black Tie Gala it was all so polite and reserved. We sat at tables and talked absently amid the clinking of utensils and teeth, amid the gurgling chatter of other tables' polite and reserved talk, amid occasional polite and reserved laughter, amid smug sips of champagne and coffee, the click of evening purses opening and shutting, the assertive clacking of heels on the marble floor.
       Smug sips.
              The clacking of heels.

These people, they wear you down. People everywhere wear you down. On our way to go meet these people, there was Yuri Kimoto-Graham, the new girl and already entertaining the whole room. In her black formfitting dress. Her nice teeth on display in a huge open laugh, and haaahaha everyone is hilarious and totally in love with Yuri Kimoto-Graham.
       Peter asked me who she was.
              The clacking of heels. The assertive
                                   clacking of heels.

Jules! Conference time! I brought you a chocolate croissant! Yuri Kimoto-Graham shimmers and shines and is everyone's best friend. Yuri Kimoto-Graham gets what she wants. She knows how to get what she wants.
       What do I want, Jules?
              Jules, Jules, what do I want?

I want a new skin. Yuri Kimoto-Graham is: Haaahaha! I am fatally charming because everyone knows who I am and wants me. I am the center of the universe, and everyone, all of you, want me.
       I am a big black hole of nothingness.
              Not just nothing, negative nothing.
                     No one knows who I am.

We sit around the conference table. In comes Kelly Krueger, who doesn't know who I am. Yuri Kimoto-Graham twitters pleasantly. I draw dead Peter. I draw dead dogs. My arm hurts. Yes. I like that. That is a good picture of a dead dog. Wayne drums his fingernails across the table. He is about to say something important. He says it, we cheer, we leave. I check my personal email. I check my work email.
       No one cares. I am nothing.

Life stinks sometimes. It really stinks. It stinks like a carcass. It stinks like a rot. It stinks like a dead body in your closet
       with a rock
              the size
                     of a molar.

At the Black Tie Gala it was all so polite and reserved. We sat at tables and stared. We competed for one another's attention. Soon it was time to dance and not fake it to people, and Peter betrayed me. He squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear. He left to find his congressman. He left to find Yuri Kimoto-Graham. Peter would like Yuri a lot. He found Yuri and he fucked her and that is why I got unhinged. I clackered around the perimeter of the ballroom in my assertive heels and my beautiful dress that was a new skin.
       It was soft, and slightly rubbery.
              I could have been anyone.
                     Peter left to find his congressman.

I wanted to kill him. So I did. I turned around, I picked up a butter knife, and I killed him. I killed him and I killed him. And then I was done.
       I left early because the Dems are as boring as Republicans.
              Peter left the next day.

Back at our place I stand over Peter's body, drinking a drink contemplatively, studying Peter's condition. Both eyelids are open halfway and his lower teeth look as if they're jutting out since his lips have been torn—bitten—off. Earlier in the evening I sawed off his left arm, which is what finally killed him, and right now I pick it up, holding it by the bone that protrudes from where his hand and fingers used to be (right now it's under my mattress), clenching it in my fist like a pipe, flesh and muscle still clinging to it though a lot of it has been hacked or gnawed off, and I bring it down on his head. It takes very few blows, five or six at most, to smash his jaw open completely, and only two more for his face to cave in on itself.
       Hey. Peter. Who am I?
              I am a very positive person.

Back at our place I stand over Yuri Kimoto-Graham's body, drinking a drink contemplatively, studying her condition. Both eyelids are open halfway and her lower teeth look as if they're jutting out since her lips have been torn — bitten — off. Earlier in the evening I sawed off her left arm, which is what finally killed her, and right now I pick it up, holding it by the bone that protrudes from where her hand and fingers and engagement ring used to be (right now it's under my mattress), clenching it in my fist like a pipe, flesh and muscle still clinging to it though a lot of it has been hacked or gnawed off, and I bring it down on her head. It takes very few blows, five or six at most, to smash her jaw open completely, and only two more for her face to cave in on itself.
       Yuri! Conference time!
              No one knows who I am.

I want a new skin. So I skinned her. I took my scalpel and I skinned her. I started at the hairline where her ear meets her face and I went all around, cutting carefully through tendons and gristle until I could peel off her face. And I did. I peeled off her face, I held it up, and I shook it a little. Like rubber. I went to a mirror and stuck Yuri Kimoto-Graham's eyeholes over mine. I smoothed Yuri Kimoto-Graham's face onto my face. I smoothed it on and into my skin. I patted it nice, and smiled in the mirror, and then I went in the hall towards Jules's cubicle.
       Tee hee. Tee hee hee.
              Jules! I brought you a muffin!

At the Black Tie Gala it was all so polite and reserved. We sat at tables and competed for one another's attention. All of them, all of them had their forks raised superior in the air, designed to stab me, stab me in the arm. I hate them, I hate them. I stabbed me in the arm.
       There, and there.

I wanted to go home and he didn't. He wanted to stay and fuck Yuri Kimoto-Graham. So I killed him. I killed him and I killed him. I took a butter knife and I split open my arm. I imagined I was killing him and I sliced open my arm.
       I need to be more positive. A more. Positive. Person.
              No one noticed. I kept it under the table.

__

"Yuri-G" was inspired in part by listening to its namesake PJ Harvey song too many times.

Related reading: Coover's "The Babysitter", Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho.